A Personal Note.....

Yesterday, in my office, a young Latino woman asked my age. I thought...oh, we're gonna play that game.
When, unasked, she said "46." I thought...46....that's 14 years younger than I am. Then I began to mentally itemize her real reasons for her estimate. There were two:
1. I am, indeed, a young, handsome, virile man, to whom women naturally gravitate.
2. She wanted something that was in my power to provide. (Do not have a dirty mind. I control a rather
admirable account that could pay a bill or two).
As I was happily choosing reason #1, she said, "I do have an electric bill I'd like you to look at."
Oh well...they say 60 is the new 50. Yeah. Right.

In the Thicket

The cab of my truck
Becomes the Holy Place.
I park in a dark lot
My face awash
In the soft glow
Of dashboard lights.
It is a lantern glow
Against the stone
Of my face
Against the altar
Of my heart.

There is no Gregorian chant
Hallowing this small space.
Nothing but the hush
Of my exhalations
What sacred texts call
Ruach
The breath
The wind
Of God.

I bind the sacrifice
For the slaughter
The flow of blood
For sprinkling
Upon the
Mercy Seat.

I am both offering
And priest.

My head against
The wheel
Like the animal
Against the altar
I release my thoughts
Give away the content
Held captive
In secret places
Hoping it acceptable.

Vespers concluded
I ignite the power
Beneath my blood red hood
And drive away
In benediction
Marveling that the truck I drive
Like Abraham’s sacrifice
Should be what was caught
By its horns
In the thicket.
A
Ram.

Submission

Her ribs lie
Just below
The velvet
Of her skin.
I press into her
Arms protectively wrapped
Yet wantonly
About her body.

Her heart beats
Near mine.
I match her breathing
Breath for breath
My head tucked
Into the space behind her
Left ear
As though I might
Listen to her thoughts.

This must be slow
Like a stout brew
Nothing hurried
A full roast
Brings the best cup.

I hush her to silence.
Let’s do this wordlessly
Trusting our bodies
To communicate.
There are better uses
For tongues
Than phonics.

We exchange our
Mysteries here
Each becoming more than
The whole
When we join
The clay of our flesh
Mixing
With the untamed light
Of our spirits.

And we kiss each other
Into submission.

Still Time

I forget reason is unnecessary
When viewing the world.
It is simply there
To be seen
Taken in
With no qualification needed.

It was the same with her.
Reason was unnecessary
When drinking in her
Long legs
Lanky body
On her belly
Tangled in sheets
Eyes half open
The seed of a smile
On her reddened face
Hair tussled
And dark
Against porcelain flesh.

Her image
Is etched
Like an old daguerreotype
In the folds of my brain
Eternal
Never aging
Unchanged.
I still see her white robe
On the cream carpet
At the foot
Of the bed’s dark wood.

I still hear her voice
Content and troubled
At the same time
A contradiction
Just like her.

Stay
She said.
Do not leave.
Not yet.

There is still time.

There was
And there wasn’t.
My contradiction.

I kissed her
And left.

If I could rewind time
Do at all again
I would stay.
I would never leave.
I cannot remember what urgency
Made me go.
But I can recall every reason
I should have stayed.

Time is like that.
It smirks at us
Plays us for the fool we are.

She remains in memory
In that brilliant wash of afternoon light
Streaming through her window
The swell of her breast curving
Into the Egyptian cotton sheet
Her softly begging me
Stay.

There’s still time
She said.

The Veteran’s Toast

I stopped feeling years ago.
Numbness is a blessing
And far to be valued
Over giving a damn.

Caring has a steep price.
It slices the heart
Poisons the soul
And stings the eyes.

But years of stuff
Designed to take the edge off
Dull the senses
And soothe the mind
Wear away the years of pain.

I’ve stepped away
From the precipice
Its dizzy heights
And fathomless depths.

Those whose nerves
Are still sharp
And whose hearts
Are still filling with things
They will
If they are lucky
Live to regret
Jeer at me
Shaking their heads
Saying I am jaded
I have become fearful
And a shame to their vaunted
Esprite de Corps.

If I cared
I would turn
My face to the wall
So they could not see
All the pain
All the years
All the sorrow.

But I’ve stopped caring.

Damn their foolish pride.
Someday they will understand.

So, here's to all you
Young ones
Who know it all
Who smile smugly at old vets
Like me.

Open another one
And turn down the damn lights
So you can't see
What I know
About where you'll go.

Lost

Like an Oklahoma storm
She blew into my life
Obscuring all but her.

She was prairie fire
And towering smoke.
She was the echo
Of eagles
Off walls of stone
And the cry of the wolf
Against
The New Corn Moon.

She loved me
The way sight
Loves flashing color
The way scent
Loves garden blossoms.

She was water
From deep cisterns.
She was lightening
Blistering my flesh
With the rake
Of crimson nails.

She was fire and ice
Feast and famine.
She was ointment
And balm
Answering need
And desire.

She was perfect contradiction
And complete understanding.

She was a blazing comet
Whose trackless paths
Are forever lost.

Young Man

Young man
We are only three generations
Apart.
Our lives are
Radically
Different.

You sweated in cotton fields
Whose blossoms
Were as white
And dreadful
As the man who
Owned
You.

Owned you.

Those words are intolerable
Unthinkable to me
Three generations after you lived
Died
And were shoved
Into a red dirt grave
In the Mississippi
From which we both sprang.

Young man
I do not even remember your name
Though I saw it
On surviving slave rolls.

I want to feel the numbing pain
Of your life
But all I can do
Is imagine
And that is
Not
Enough.

Young man
I am sorry.
Sorry for your tears
And agony of your years.
But that changes
Nothing.

Young man
I would kill the man
Who enslaved you.
That is
Of course
Impossible.
He died long ago
In the comfort
Of clean sheets.
And my wanting to make things
Different
Changes nothing.

The one who chained you
Whipped you
Sent his dogs in pursuit
Of you
Laughed at your misery
And kicked your corpse
Into a poorly marked grave
Was my
Great Grandfather.

I visited the weedy patch
In which you lie.
You name is weather-worn
Illegible.
He is buried up the hill
From you
And the marker stone
For his body is gleaming granite.

I spit on that stone
Though there was
In that defiance
No redemption
For you or me.

Young man…
I am sorry.

A Self Pat on the Back

My poem, "I Felt Nothing" has been picked up
by a national police gazette, called "The Journal
of Law Enforcement" for their summer issue.
Every writer's goal is publication, and to be printed
in such a fine and reputable journal is an honor. I am
proud to be thought useful. Their editor is
Dr. Olivia Johnson, who resides in Metro
St. Louis.

Not Enough Miles

I dreamed I was
On a wide open range
And the skies were
A translucent blue.
A mighty fine horse
With white socks and crown
Moved powerfully
Between my knees.

I smelled snow
On the wind
But it was a long way off
And it held no concern
For me.
The sun was high
The mountains were far
And I was as free
As a dying man might be.

Molly was my horse
But my name I forgot
Though that was of no matter to me.
There was plenty of jerky
Packed in my bag
And enough coffee
To last several days.

I tried to remember
Why I wanted to run
Why I had such a need
To make tracks.
There seemed no reason
Save a powerful desire
To not be found standing still.

In my breast pocket
Was a daguerreotype
Of a woman with long
Flowing hair.
Her eyes were half open
Mouth not quite closed
With some matter
Sure on her mind.

I knew she lay behind
I would ne'er see her again
And was why Mollie
Pressed hell for leather
In our run.

But it was only a dream
Mollie does not exist
And the snow may yet fall
Over me.
But the beautiful woman
With long flowing hair
With sleepy eyes and sensuous lips
Remains a daguerreotype in my breast.

And there are not enough miles
In God’s expansive heaven
That can rend her memory from me.

60 ! *

I have achieved a mile marker! I thought I’d share it with you,
as an achievement like this merits a declaration! So… how
shall I put this? Hmmm…okay, got it! By the standards of AARP,
I may now celebrate the 10th anniversary of qualification to be
included on their annoying rolls! Yep! I am now 60 years young!
And, I have now used 6 exclamation points in one paragraph,
including this one! That’s something I have not done
since 3rd grade! I am so happy! Why am I happy to be 60? Great
question! Here’s my list:
• I am no longer expected to run for any reason, except fire!
• I am not expected to stand at sporting events!
• I can eye a pretty girl without getting slapped!
• I can drive 55 and not get cussed!
• I am not expected to understand “computer-speak” (LOL!)
• I can crash into a public building with no other
reason, other than I'm a 60 year old driver!
• I am not required to change my grand daughter's diaper!
• I can smoke a cigar without getting a speech on the perils of smoking!
• I am no longer asked if I want to sit at the bar at Chili’s!
• I can use 30 exclamation points in one brief note and absolutely
NO ONE CARES!!!!!!!!!!!!

* This exclamation point does not count in the aggregate total!

Independence Day Lament

Where have you gone
My Fathers?
And where have you gone
My Mothers?

The land of our birth lies
Disfigured
Nearly unrecognizable
From that given
So precious
Long ago.

We have worn the uniform
Borne the battles
Shed the blood
And for this?

Where have you gone
My brothers?
And where have you gone
My sisters?

From coast to coast
From lofty mountain’s precipice
To tropic island sands
From golden wheat lands
To tundra prairies
We have traded our freedoms
For supposed securities
All unrealized and intangible.

Where have you gone
My uncles?
And where have you gone
My aunts?

Our hearthstones are shattered
And our ovens are cold
Our quilts are tattered
And our banners faded.

I fear we have strayed
So far from the hard-carved path
So far from the ink on that treasured parchment
We may never return.

I weep for my country.

My Fathers
Mothers
Brothers
Sisters
Aunts and Uncles
Have not left you
Our homeland…

How is it you have turned from us?

Thoughts While Walking Away *

I’ve packed my gear
It sits by the door.
My dog’s on his rug.
I can hear him snore.

The kids are in bed
My wife’s still asleep.
There’s nothing preventing
Me making this leap.

My nerves are steeled
It’s time that I go.
But the plan from here
God only knows.

So, pray for me.
Better yet, pray for them.
I don’t want’em thinking
I left on a whim.

If I stick around here
I’m likely to snap.
I see the pattern in me
Like roads on a map.

The violence done me
In a far away land
Will eventually come home
The way wind blows the sand.

Better it find me
When I’m all alone.
I’ll explain it to her later
When I call on the phone.

Maybe this’ll blow over
And I’ll find me some peace.
If not, I’ll have spared my family
At least.

* Again, not autobiographical, but
I deal with those for whom this is
very real, and sometimes tragic.
Freedom, as is said, is never free.
This 4th of July, thank a soldier.

PTSD or “Alphabet Soup” *

I have seen blood enough
Syrup thick
Warm
Stinking like copper.

I have seen brains exposed
Pale
The consistency of pasta
Splattered and smashed.
I have seen a beating heart
Cupped within a split chest
Ribs, like fingers
Stretching toward me.

Life is in the blood
Knowledge in the brain
The memory of times
Making love
Flying
Running
Every past breath
And the whole of a man
Friend or foe
Stripped and lain
Across place and time.

What is man
O, Lord
That thou art mindful
Of him?

Long after the removal
Tagged
Bagged
And dragged
In the snarl of cops
Death remains my partner.

I sleep with grisly dreams
Freely roaming my unconscious self.
I limp with memories
No man should share.
I breathe death
And am acquainted with its coarse ways.

How, then, am I to live
And what may become
Of him
Who has borne the wounded
And buried the dead?

Time
Inexorable
Will tell.

*Recently I was diagnosed with Complex PTSD.
I promise you, there is more encapsulated in
four letters of the alphabet than poetry can
possibly detail. I hope you, who know those
who suffer with this “alphabet soup” will
show them the kindness their own souls
cannot.

I Felt Nothing*

When I shot him
I felt nothing.
He fell in a lifeless heap
And did not move.

I remember everything
About that night.

I remember
The street light sparking
Off the cheap gun in his hand
The tang of gunpowder in the air
The loud pipes on a motorcycle
A block away
And my partner running past me
As I holstered my weapon.

But I felt nothing.

Squads with flaring strobes
Closed on the scene.
The EMT’s arrived.
Investigators placed numbered signs
To detail the spread of spent shells.

But I felt nothing.

I was interviewed by Internal Affairs
By detectives
By my sergeant
And I answered the same
Every time.

But I felt nothing.

I did not discuss it with my wife
But the recurring nightmare
Was a continual loop
Every damn night.
So I slept less and less.

When I returned to duty
I was easily angered
Jittery
Prone to check
And recheck my weapon.

My home life imploded.
My wife left
Taking the kids
And when the bottle became my solace
I felt nothing.

I was placed on administrative leave.
My friends stopped coming around
My anger consumed me
But I insisted I felt nothing.

Then came the night
I went to the park by the river walk
And in the dark
Outside and inside
I placed a 9mm to my head
And pulled the trigger.

After that
I felt nothing.

*Obviously, this is not autobiographical.
But this does reflect my experience after
22 years in law enforcement, and the loss
of more than one friend and officer.
Police Suicide is not widely discussed
But within the “Thin Blue Line"
it is deeply felt. But the duty
continues its demand every shift.

Reply to Comment on "After Goodbye"

Dear Reader,
Thank you for your comment. You are very insightful. Maybe I can provide a glimpse into the Monarch matter. I have had loves since she left. All love, of any variety (pets, kids and grandkids, etc.) bring a variety of joys and heartbreaks. I don't know why, but when there's a full moon, or a particularly rainy day, my heart looks to its aches before its joys. Most days are laden with all the pleasures of life. But there are those seasons when the heart looks back, and that's when my Monarch flies. I will never get past her, because her memory centers me, mellows me, and causes me to better appreciate the good that remains. A Monarch butterfly flew past the windshield of my truck yesterday, and I nearly missed the light turning green...my mind went to my Monarch. Crazy? Yes. Absolutely. Maybe I'm like the fisherman, who always laments the "one that got away." On the other hand, isn't that one of the virtues of poetry? To give readers a boxcar to hobo on as we look to our past pain? But pity me? Please don't do that. I was given the rarity of her love, even though briefly. I suggest that anyone who was loved like that be envied. At least, that's my story, and I'm stickin' to it!
I sincerely appreciate your comment, and hope you'll keep on reading.
Thanks.....James